When I was 7 I was the Easter Bunny. No, really, there’s proof. Don’t let that cheeky smile and those deceptively white retro sandals fool you. I was the Easter Bunny for real. I thought I was the Easter Bunny last week, though, and it turned out there was just too much codeine in my scotch and dry.
My mum thought it would be a terrific idea to dress her eldest daughter in white nylon and trot her off to the local kindergarten to give out eggs. I can’t really blame her – it was the 70s and it seemed like a good idea for a whole decade. I remember it was a warm day and the outfit was itchy and sweaty. And don’t start me on that bow. My brother was one of the kinder kids, an irrepressible 4 year old who had light fingers. I was 7, clearly owned the place and thought I’d give my brother a fair whack across the knuckles when I snagged him pinching a SECOND egg (I mean, who does that?). In that moment, my DNA was irrepressibly mixed in with that of a stern old boarding school marm from an Enid Blyton book. Winning.
It was the same year I discovered that the Easter Bunny wasn’t real. I was a stubborn kid (considering my eldest daughter, one might say Karma’s a bitch) and caught my mum at the front of our house with a full basket of easter eggs (clearly “on the hide”). I asked her what she was doing and was told to go back to bed. I asked her again, she told me to go back to bed. I asked her AGAIN and was told to “GO BACK TO BED”. I asked a fourth time and mum threw her arms up and said “Look, I’m the EASTER BUNNY OK!” I was devastated. I went back to bed, my life (or at least my prospect of scoring chocolate in future years) crumbling before my very eyes.
I eat fish every Good Friday even though I don’t believe in God (or like fish) because it’s a tradition. I do the Easter Egg hunt every year for my kids but god help them if they spring me hiding eggs.
One thing’s for sure, I’ll never EVER dress them in white nylon. The shoes on the other hand…
Linking up with My Mummy Daze for “Stories of Me”